More than Just a Birthday

Tuesday, my birthday, was more than just a birthday.
It was a testament to how much people love me.

My sisters came to my house well past midnight, the night before, to heart attack me. To write personalized, special, dirty, and pretty hilarious love notes all over my house.

They did it not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Because the love me.

And then I went to work. And people had given me balloons, and gifts, and they had even decorated my twin brother's cubie.
And we were happy.

After work, the sisters had planned a secret lunch for Brett and I. We of course knew about it weeks in advance, but our family still inisists on calling it the "Secret Birthday Lunch." It was lovely. So many people had put so much time and effort into a delicious lunch to celebrate me. (And him. :)

Afterward, Brandon had planned with Angela (Brett's wife) that we were going to go to a movie, and dinner. And then afterward Brandon had a surprise for me. I had no idea what it was, much to my conseternation. I ALWAYS know what my surprises are. I'm a master guesser and snooper. But not this time. I could not get it out of him, I could not figure it out.

After the movie was over, we had to stop at Brett and Angela's to get the gift card for Market Street Grill, where we were to partake of our birthday meal.

I walked in the door.

I walked up the landing.

And there were people everywhere. I looked around, bewildered.

SURPRISE!!!!! Everybody shouted.

And I just stared.

I was in shock.

My first two thoughts were

1) Someone had died and everybody was here to tell me about it

or

2) Some idgit had planned some sort of INTERVENTION on my birthday. (LAME)

But no.

They were here for me. For my birthday. To celebrate me. (And Brett. :)
I wanted to cry. These people could be at their kids soccer games, or they could be at a movie, they could be anywhere else in the world but here, to celebrate me. I kept saying Thank you so much for coming, for being here. Because I couldn't believe that they would. Just because. Just because they love me.

The party was amazing. Burgers, fruit, cakes, the whole works. My best friend drove four hours from St. George to come. My dear friend D that I haven't seen in a long time came. My sisters, their spouses. Brett's (and mine) old friends from high school. My in-laws, everyone. They all came.
Last night, as I was uploading all these photos, I looked at Brandon, and I said,
"I do believe I'm going to cry."

And I did. Because SO MANY people did SO MUCH for me on my birthday. More than I felt I deserved.

Well, the tears wouldn't stop. I put away the laundry, loaded the dishes, all the while, with tears of gratitude streaming down my face. Of awe.

I am loved, even though at times I feel I don't deserve it.

On my birthday, and always. Thank you for giving me that. For giving me more than just a birthday.

It was the best gift I could have ever received.

[EDIT: the pictures in this post are screwed up; some won't enlarge. I'll fix it later.]

A Quarter of a Century Ago, Today

Yes, that’s right. I am the big 2-5 today. I don’t really feel as a person should who is in their mid-twenties. I actually still kind of act like I’m 17 minus the no curfew or sex rule.

But I’m like, an adult. I’m responsible.

And it’s funny.

I’m sitting here, thinking of all the years that have passed, and I know unequivocally that the life I lead now is not the life I ever dreamt I’d lead, or even want to lead.

This is how it was supposed to go:
I’d graduate college in something; I didn’t really care, as long as I was writing. I’d go live in NYC; experience the Big Apple and Life and model for Elite and Victoria’s Secret. And then I’d get married, and in my late twenties or early thirties have one baby, maybe two. I’d be famous by the time I was 30, having written the next Great American Novel, of course, and maybe even having graced the cover of Vogue. I would never worry about finances, or my lungs. I would be thin and beautiful but never of course have an eating disorder. I’d have it All Together. No one would ever have to worry about me, or whisper behind my back, or look at me critically and think, Has she gained weight? Has she lost? I’d even have a white picket fence, dammit!

And, well wow, we know that that’s not how things have turned out. At all.

But if I could go back, would I change it? If I’m being honest, perhaps. Those who say they don’t regret anything they’ve ever done are fools. Or, terribly naïve. Or maybe just a saint. I don’t know.

There have been lots of things in my life that have hurt. I’ve made a lot of mistakes too, nearly killed myself with anorexia, put my parents and family in bouts of frenzied worry for my sanity and life. And that shames me.

But also, maybe it’s made me ME. Who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be.

I was born, and I was happy. And then somewhere along the line…not so happy. And that translated into self-starvation, which at the time, was really self-preservation. And then I tried to get better but couldn’t. I got worse. But then I met Brandon. And for a while, I got better. And then I got sick again. But then I got pregnant with Cade, and got better. But then got sick again. And finally, better: recovering. And now here I am, dealing with the devastating after-math of malnutrition. I am not the picture of health even though I no longer restrict. There are consequences to one’s actions. And that sucks.

And I’ll have to live with that.

And, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to live with all that for at least a few more quarter centuries, because my life really does rock. Because I have Brandon, and I have Cade. And I have my friends, and my amazing sisters and mom, and family. And I have YOU. Seriously let’s have a cheesy moment, okay?
[deep breath]
LOVE YOU!

Man. Happy birthday to me, right?

Weekend Rundown

Friday: the l o n g e s t day of my life at work. It was our state independence day, but we weren’t closed because we’re a corporation, and of course the other states we are located in didn’t recognize it as a holiday. So I worked. And it was slow. I took 3 phone calls in 5 hours. That’s NOTHING, that’s insane, that’s boring, that's just wrong that I even had to drag my skinny A into work. That even leaves me even too much time to surf the web, seriously.

After work Big B and C and I went to my sissy’s house for her annual July 24th party. (It's Utah’s Big Day, remember?) It was super super bo buper fun! There were tiki torches everywhere (talk about the smoke giving me asthma!) and food and food and sparklers and dessert and games and more food. We were all lounging around in chairs, watching the kids play, and waiting for it to be dark enough to light some fireworks. I played an intense game of tether-ball with Troy, my brother, who is like 6’7”. It ain’t easy playing with such a height disadvantage, but I almost smoked him (read: I lost). C had a blast playing with his cousins, and the only damper on the evening was the neighbors across the cul-de-sac who had been invited but declined to come decided to start having a “band practice” that sounded more like a cow getting done like, DONE by a bull. And they sell drugs. And they were loud and my sister nicely asked them to at least shut their garage door, we could barely hear each other speak. It didn’t go over so well. But at least the drug trafficking stopped! Anyway, it was a blast. Thanks Brookie and Johnny for giving us such a delightful evening! Saturday: I woke up, and immediately felt around the bed for Cade; I knew he’d woken up to snuggle with me sometime in the early hours. I looked over the bed to see that he’d fallen off the bed, but managed to stay asleep, which might be the coolest thing ever. What’s not so cool? Bobbi was puking up all of Cade’s truck stickers about two inches from his head.

What a great way to start the morning!

But then I went to the gym, did some laundry, picked up C’s toys for (literally) the 486th time that day, did the dishes, gave Bobbi a mild concussion (not for the whole ralphing next to my kid thing, I accidentally gave her a good rap on the head with my knuckle. But I think we’re cool again.) Dropped C off at Mace’s to have a play-date, so that Tawny, Brookie, Ashlyn (T’s daughter) and I could go visit Niece Claire Bear in the hospital after some surgery. We brought her some gifts to play with while she was stuck there, and she was absolutely delighted. I’ll be honest; it was rough being in the hospital again, I hadn’t been at Primary Childrens’ for 18 months since C was there for a week, and it brought back some sad, bad, yucky memories. But it was great to see her; the kid is just brimming with joy and optimism and energy even though she just got surgery to get the “tangle” out of her stomach. She lifted her shirt and showed me her “brave spots,” where she’d had surgery, then I lifted my shirt and showed her my PEG scar and appendectomy scar to show her my “brave spots,” too. Cuz that’s what they are, right? Scars give us character, make us unique, and make us who we are. And we shouldn’t regret that or be ashamed of it. She taught me that on Saturday, this sweet, un-assuming little 4 year old. What a b to the lessing in disguise!

Sunday: went to Mom and Dad’s homecoming. It was F A N T A S T I C. It was a little clausthrophobic trying to sit in a pew (a small one) with 5 other people including my squirmy 3 year old, but M and D gave hello amazing! talks, as always, and I left remembering how truly lucky I am to have such caring, charitable, grade A, kick A parents. The party at their house afterward was a bit insane. So many people, so many missionaries, so many platters of food!

Came home, watched Disturbia because I like Shia LaBeouf. A lot. Then my sis-in-law made me an early birthday cake from SCRATCH (German Chocolate, my favorite!) and we went to my in-laws and had an early let’s sing to Brie and make her feel so special but awkward moment. But it was great, it meant a lot they’d thought of me and remembered me.

And then I read like 300 pages in my smutty Scottish novel; I’m telling you guys this series is amazing! Each book is well over 1000 pages though, but so worth it. Quite the stimulating read (and I mean that in more than one way, haha. ;)

Now here I am, a little sleepy, but happy after a rather successful (read: not overwhelmed with depression or anxiety) weekend. Hope yours was great too! Now go and write a blog so I can read it and not be bored.
I thank ‘ee. ;)

There's Nothing Gray About Sisterhood

Thank you, oh sister of mine, for putting in a monumental effort to show the camera my thick GRAY curly pubey hairs now growing from my (soon to be MID-TWENTIES) head. Thank you for CLEARLY being the (four years older) adult in the situation, and gleefully cackling while you are pawing at my head, perusing for graysies, while I complacently (and innocently) munch a turkey roll.

What would I ever do without you? ;)

Sister Trip, 2009

We came. We laughed. We saw each other's boobs. We shopped. We loved, darnit all.

We swam. A lot.

Got tan even more.

Tried to take unflattering pictures of each other (sorry Mist!)

Sported (my) headbands.

Loved our mom. Lots.

Talked. Missed our kids, but not really. Stayed at the most amazing condo ever.

Played. Admired the cute backs of our new shirts. (Doesn't Ang look like she's staring at me inadoration in this pic, I love it!)

But most of all? WE ATE. A lot. I'm still full.

My favorite thing I did, though, was hump a palm tree.

Just kidding. :)

Till next year, girls!

I Gave Blood; My Legs Gave Out

Yesterday at work there was a blood drive. For some weird reason I was in a giving mood, and thought why not do it, I’ve never donated before, today seems like a good a day as any to save a life, right?

So I made sure that the 340 medications I am taking were not on the banned list (they weren’t – to my utmost surprise) and they didn’t seem to have any qualms about my low weight, so I let ‘em have at me.

As I was waiting, though, for my turn to be poked and sucked dry, my charitable mood began to wane. What was I doing? Was I insane? Is my health even stable enough to do this?? My co-workers were all incredulous I was donating – they notice when I miss work due to hospitalizations and other such nonsense, so I was getting freaked about my CHARITABLE decision and I called my mom and asked her just what the H bomb I was doing. WHAT? She shrieked! You can’t give blood, you NEED your blood. ALL of it. You’re not healthy enough to do it. But Mom, I protested weakly, I’ve already started the process. I’ve already told them I have slept with no Bolivian whores and that I do not take Propecia for baldness. They’ve given me the All Clear! I promise I’ll be okay! She was skeptical, but really what could she do? I’m, like, an adult. Usually.

It wasn’t so bad. After I made sure they couldn’t poke my left arm, because excuse me that’s my bowling arm and I have League tonight, it seemed to go pretty smoothly. In fact, they say the average person, to donate a pint of blood, takes between 6-9 minutes. I was a fast bleeder. I was done in 4 minutes, 45 seconds. I was praising myself on my amazing bleeding skills. This wasn’t so bad! Who cares if you just took 1/6 of my blood? I, apparently, don’t need it. I am the picture of health. I am not passing out. I am not feeling weird. I am feeling brave and strong and am really excited about the free juice box I’m going to procure.

So I was done. She wrapped my arm up in a purple bandage, which was totally lame, because I’d heard her ask every other co-worker what color they wanted, (red, yellow, blue, purple, green, or pink) and I was debating between yellow and pink. I mean, yellow would’ve gone better with my outfit, but let’s be honest, it kind of looked like used toilet paper. So I was getting all excited about my pink bandage, when she wrapped me up in an anticlimactic purple. That put a damper on things, but still, it didn’t matter, I JUST SAVED A LIFE, man. And I didn’t die in the process, like some (coughMom&coworkerscough) thought I would.

She says thank you for donating today, have a great day. I sit up. I feel a little funny. I’m seeing black and red things that I’m pretty sure shouldn’t be there. I’m okay though, I think, no biggie, and stand up. But then sit down.
Abruptly.
And I hear, faintly, what seemed like from far away, WE’VE GOT A FAINTER! ...And then I had an ice pack on my neck and chest and I was like I’m so sorry but AT LEAST I’M A FAST BLEEDER.

I ruined their record. They were going for a faint-free day, and I tarnished it. ButbutBUT. Let’s all say it together, now: AT LEAST I’M A FAST BLEEDER!

So, I gave. I gave a lot.
But my legs gave out. Selfish jerks.

Masochistic Massage

Mmmmmm, a massage.

A respite.

Relaxing.

Don’t they feel S O.G O O D?

I had a massage last night. I thought to myself, “Brie, you’re a trooper. You’ve had a tough month, and dangit, you deserve some ‘lovin. You’re tense and stressed and what better way to get out all the anxiety than a nice, relaxing, massage?”

So I called and booked one for the next hour.

I went in. I talked with my masseuse, and told him that I liked deep tissue massages. Why on earth would I pay muchos dolares for a light massage, which is akin to slippery butterfly wings drumming on your back? Nah, I wanted my money’s worth. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to get the knots out, feel the kinks straighten out. Yes, yes, I like it deep.

So he began. It was nice at first. Pleasant. He did a once over on my back, and Ed, he said, “Woah. How are you even surviving with this kind of back? You are so tense; I cannot find one muscle that isn’t in a knot.” And I kind of mumbled, “Yeah, it’s been a bad month.” “I’ll say,” he exclaims, then says, “Okay. I’m going to give you a massage that I think is the most therapeutic for you. It won’t be the most comfortable massage, but it’ll help you the most.” I readily agreed. I've had deep tissues massages before. I love them. But I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and hey, I really did want some back relief.

The first time his elbow dug into some tender oh so tender muscle near my shoulder blade, I gasped.

BREATHE, BRIE, JUST BREATHE. Inoutinoutinoutinout.

...Whew. I felt my muscle move a bit, and voila, the pressure eased.

I can handle this. I’m strong. I used to starve myself for days and days. I have will-power.

Again, the pain, the white-hot pain. I thought to myself, what would M (my T) tell me to do? WWMD, right?
VISUALISATION! Yes, that’s it! She’d want me to visualize I was somewhere else, somewhere comfortable and happy.

I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH aaaah I love it I love it I love it I...love...it?? And then I started thinking, this doesn’t really hurt, does it? This is Brandon giving me a massage, and he sucks at them, and this doesn’t really hurt, I’m just making this up I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH!!!!!!

“Wow,” Mr. Masseuse says. “I’m impressed you can handle this, you’re such a skinny thing. I weigh 250 pounds, and I’m putting all my weight into this. But MAN, I just can’t believe how many knots you have. How on earth did you even do this to yourself?”

“I guess I just carry my stress in my back,” I say weakly, panting.

“Yeah, and you really must be a masochist to be able to handle this!” (At that I surreptitiously twist my left arm awkwardly to hide all the self-inflicted scars there that have healed a bright, stark WHITE against my olive skin.
“And you’re a sadist,” I mutter under my breath.

And then he starts again. I have never actually SWEATED during a massage. Nor have I had hot flashes. I began to think that the stress of the massage was putting me through early menopause. Great, I think. And I wanted another kid, dammit!

It’s nearly over now, I can tell because my muscles are much looser, and he’s using his hands to rub the knots out, as opposed to his forearms and elbows.

I hear a lot of popping.

And I’m thinking, “Ed, I’m a little embarrassed for you. Can’t you keep the finger cracking to a minimum?” It was almost as if he read my mind, because he suddenly said, “You hear that cracking? That’s YOU. You have so many adhesions, your muscles are popping back into place.” I asked him what an adhesion was, and he told me that it was when your muscles are so tense, they start to stick together, and that’s eventually what makes a knot. It was almost like hearing a little kid gleefully popping bubble wrap. It was disconcerting.

Then he says, “Is it alright if I work on your glutes a bit? They can also contribute to hurting your back.” “Sure,” I say comfortably, thinking for a rather dense-of-me moment that my glutes were where my hamstrings are. It must be the menopause fuddling with my brain.

And then I realized what my glutes were. My ASS. Don’t worry, I was wearing (adorable) panties, and there was a sheet and also a blanket over me, so there were three layers between his meaty hands and my fleshy bottom, but still it was…weird. Plus, under all that padding, I had no idea I even had bummers muscles. Isn’t it all just fat? But no! Alas! He found them, and he hurt them. His fist was a meat cleaver, and I was the rump roast.

At the end of the massage, Ed gave me a glass of water and told me to drink up. “Water is going to be your best friend,” he says. “I released a lot of metabolic discharge, and you’ll need water to flush it out.” I blanched. Had we just had sexual intercourse, or a completely appropriate (but painful) massage? All I can say is:

I never liked meat cleavers
or
sexual innuendos (however unintentional) by a sadistic masseuse named Ed.

And this morning?
I have no knots.
Or adhesions.

But my back is sore from, like, all the METABOLIC DISCHARGE.

Good thing I’m masochistic, eh?